


Younger Siblings are the Most Puzzling Conundrums

by thescribblenaut



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: But it's there for a reason, Gen, I'm erring on the side of caution, Mycroft being honest, Trust me on this one, angsty childhood stories, mentions of drug abuse, the rating's there for that reason, weird i know
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-06-14
Updated: 2014-06-14
Packaged: 2018-02-04 15:35:43
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,121
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1784260
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/thescribblenaut/pseuds/thescribblenaut
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Greg Lestrade doesn't think much of Sherlock Holmes' older brother. Mycroft takes the term 'big brother' far too literally for the newly-made DI's liking. That is, until he gets an unexpected knock on the door.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Younger Siblings are the Most Puzzling Conundrums

**Author's Note:**

> It's another Lestrade fic! Yay! Because everyone loves Greg Lestrade (yes you do, shush), and I wanted to do a bit of literary exploration. I like that phrase. So here, have a slightly fluffy discussion of Sherlock, behind his back. 
> 
> Not intended to be Mystrade, but if you have your goggles fixed that way, then I suppose it is, in fact, early Mystrade. But that's not how I wrote it. 
> 
> WARNING: Mentions of drug abuse, hence the rating of 'T'.
> 
> I still do not own, and as such I cannot profit from. And yes, I am still waiting for the BBC to ask me to suddenly gain the rights, yes, why do you ask?

When Greg Lestrade had first met Sherlock Holmes, he had also met his brother. Mycroft Alistair Oooh-Look-I’m-a-Smug-Bastard Holmes had kidnapped him, interrogated him, and warned him. Greg had, obviously, not bothered listening. This man hadn’t cared enough about Sherlock to get off his arse and help him, just sent him away, apparently, so why he should listen to his condescending tone, he had no idea.

 

That had been a couple of weeks ago. Three, at most. And now the black car was back again, outside his flat, only it was Mycroft himself getting out, and going to his front door, and knocking, and _bugger_ he was waiting at the door. Greg ran down the stairs, pulling on a jumper to make himself slightly more presentable (somehow, hopefully), and opened the door.

“Mr Holmes.” He could have gone for the more impersonal 'Mycroft', or even 'Presumptuous Git', but he'd been raised to be polite- even if the less courteous label was indeed highly accurate.

“Detective Inspector.” Mycroft turned to him. “May I come in?”

Slightly shocked by the lack of self-assured superiority, Greg nodded and pulled the door open wider, stepping back to let the other man in.

“Tea?” He asked, walking into the joint living room and kitchen, expecting Mycroft to follow. “Or, there’s coffee, hot chocolate-“ He realised that nobody was following him, so went back into the hallway.

“Kitchen’s this way- oh Christ.” He sighed, pinching the bridge of his nose. Mycroft had stopped in the hallway, eyes caught by a photograph hung on the wall, an action far too reminiscent of his brother to be comfortable.

 

Partially placed there to remind his little sister that he hadn’t forgotten their childhood, thank you very much, and partially because it made him smile, the photograph pictured him just before leaving for college. His first car, a bright red original Mini, was in the background, boxes secured on the roof and in the back of it, whilst a younger version of himself stood there, hugging a tearful little sister close. Jayni hadn’t been impressed by his leaving, had been incredibly angry. She’d felt abandoned, actually, her big brother off on the largest adventure yet, and not taking her with him, and so had refused to speak to him for a week. But just as he was about to leave, she’d dashed out of the house, thrown a patchwork blanket at him, and hugged him tight.

 

He still had the blanket, yes.

 

“Mildly embarrassing.” He commented lightly, trying to keep his cheeks from burning. He was tempted to rip the picture from the wall, he didn’t want his life under the analysis of Mycroft Holmes, the nosy git knew enough about him, including his bloody address, apparently. Next time Sally was going on about the government’s waste of resources, he’d be able to agree entirely. Mycroft stood straighter, leaning away from the photograph.

“Actually, I’d call it reassuring.” He said. “I apologise for staring, Detective Inspector, it reminded me of something. Would you mind explaining the story behind it?”

“You can’t tell?” Greg asked, surprised.

“Alas, whilst I can deduce most things, my brother inherited a slightly more… _impressive_ deductive prowess, something he _loves_ dangling over my head. I can tell this is a departure, most likely to a college, given your age in the photograph, but the reason this girl is quite so upset eludes me. She’s your sister, but both you and she are more emotional than would be expected, even from the closest of siblings. I cannot fathom the reasons behind the wound up emotion in the picture.” The man admitted, eyes flicking briefly to the floor. “My forte is more the persuasion of difficult and greasy politicians. Possibly tact, when I choose so, and intimidation.” Mycroft smiled ironically, before stepping around Greg.

“I believe you said the kitchen was this way?”

“Um, yeah. Right. Tea?”

“Hmm…” Mycroft made a considering noise. Greg arched an eyebrow.

“Hot chocolate?” He grinned at the involuntary flicker of interest in Mycroft’s eye. “Cadbury’s okay?”

“A weakness of mine, I’m afraid. One I don’t indulge in too much, for appearance’s sake. Who’s going to listen to the man drinking _hot chocolate_ , of all things, out of a large mug when there are far scarier drinks available?”

Greg thought that _might_ have been a joke. And promptly quirked an eyebrow in shock.

“Want the little marshmallows too?”

“You don’t have any.” Mycroft informed him, glancing around the kitchen quickly.

“No, I don’t.” Greg sighed, acting dejected. He could have sworn Mycroft smiled as he sat on the large leather sofa, waiting unobtrusively.

 

Greg frowned, making his way over with drinks. Mycroft must be bored stiff, his flat wasn’t _that_ interesting. Cream walls, black furniture, large windows with grey blinds currently sitting out of the way. A few personal effects. Nothing mindblowing, unless you counted the slightly alarming collection of DVDs dominating an entire wall, next to a plasma TV. He’d saved up _forever_ to get that. But there wasn’t anything that _Mycroft_ would find interesting enough to curb his general attitude and become ordinary over. Unless he was a secret film buff, as well as a hot chocolate lover.

“Okay, out with it. Why are you being so different? You’re being nice, and all the smugness has gone. Why?” He asked, sitting opposite Mycroft and fixing him with a stern glare.

“I need to ask a favour.” The man said reluctantly.

“And you’re using your politician techniques to get it?” Greg asked snappily. He didn’t appreciate being tricked. Not one bit.

“No. I believe this is called ‘being honest’. I told you my identity immediately with the same goal in mind. With you, melodrama does nothing, get a person nowhere. Lying, blackmail, bartering, bribery, same effect. You refuse to accept something unless it’s genuine. It’s written all over you.” Mycroft replied easily, with the air of someone who was warning you that they could turn very nasty when defensive. Greg sighed.

“Sorry, that was unnecessary.” He said, wrapping his hands around his mug. Mycroft took a sip from his own, giving Greg a stern look, although his next sentence didn’t indicate any hard feelings.

“Quite alright. In your position I would have done the same. Now, the photograph in the hallway. Will you explain?” Greg wasn’t sure why it was so important, but Mycroft seemed to be relatively caught up about it, so he figured out how to do it quickly.

“Alright, Mr Enigmatic.” He teased gently. “Yeah, that’s when I was leaving for college. My sister wasn’t happy about it. She wouldn’t speak to me for the entirety of that week. I didn’t think she’d say goodbye, spent most of her time in her room, completely shut me out. Turns out she was making this patchwork blanket for me, and didn’t want to spoil the surprise.” He told his guest.

“She refused to speak to you because you were the person she looked up to, and she perceived your leaving as your abandoning her.” Mycroft summarised perceptively.

“Yeah. Muppet.” Greg agreed, running a hand through his hair. Mycroft sighed, seeming happier.

“Good. Anyway, onto this favour. To explain fully, I’ll need to tell you a few things about Sherlock, that he won’t like you knowing.”

“And would I please refrain from telling him where I got the information?” Greg guessed. Mycroft smiled in a way that made it more of a polite grimace.

“Indeed. My brother, is and always has been, far too intelligent for his own good. He’s nothing like me, I was always mature to go with it, so I could keep up with myself. But Sherlock, especially as a child, had the attitude of someone his age, but the mind of someone far above that. Consequently, he was incredibly uncertain as to how to go about things, often offending or driving people away with a badly thought out comment, something he perceived as fine, but offended many of his peers in particular. There was one period in his life where he barely spoke at all, because he was sick to death of being yelled at.” Mycroft told Greg, sounding quietly distraught. “I’m assuming that your sister didn’t quite have these problems.”

“No. She was clingy, yeah, but nothing on this scale.” Greg admitted hollowly.

“As you did, I left home when I went to college. Sherlock reacted in much the same way as your sister. Unhappy, sulky, and he reverted back into his silent mode of operation. Before, he had considered me as the only person who actually understood, a role model of sorts. I didn’t mind, there wasn’t really any pressure, as he was always able to tell the correct way to go about things, so he could tell when not to repeat any mistakes I made. So my leaving was a sort of betrayal in his mind. From there, it went downhill. His school reports soared, his social ones did not. From what my parents have told me, he was abrasive, cold, unpleasant, and sad, often coming home covered in bruises. He was, in short, volatile. And his head got carried away. At around fourteen, he started developing incredible migraines, especially when he had nothing to do. He had to be busy, all the time. I witnessed one of these migraines in action, his room was pitch black, silent, and he was curled up, every inch of him covered in blankets apart from his head, which he was clutching at.”

“So his brain really was tearing itself to bits?” Greg asked, remembering the phrase used by Sherlock himself a while ago. Mycroft nodded.

“Ouch.”

“Apparently so. He refused any help I offered, other than tea and ice packs, and stayed there, miserably, until two days later, when he started playing the violin. He was an instant natural. We hoped that he’d maybe managed to find something that could reconnect him to the world, but it wasn’t enough. It helped, certainly, but it couldn’t cover it all. Some part of his brain was aware that he wasn’t doing anything _productive_. And Sherlock needs that, Detective Inspector.” Mycroft fixed Greg to his seat with a sharp gaze. “He also needs someone to look out for him. Which he won’t let me do. The most I can do is watch through cameras, which is tedious, believe me.”

“So, will I keep a eye out for him?” Greg asked.

“That is the favour I’m asking, yes. I understand that it’s a large ask, and that I should have done things differently, so that I wouldn’t have to ask it of you, but I can’t rewind time, unfortunately-“

“Mr Holmes!” Greg said loudly. Mycroft stopped talking with a subtle jolt. However that worked.

“I’ll do it. What do I do to help?” Mycroft recovered smoothly.

“Just make sure he’s okay. And if there aren’t any cases you can offer him, just make sure that there’s plenty of ice around. And tea. Two sugars, weak brew, so much milk you think he’d be sick. Preferably Earl Grey.” He replied. “It won’t be easy. He enjoys his independence. He won’t co-operate with you on most things, particularly the drugs-“

“Oh we’ve got a deal about that.” Greg said with a grin. “He likes cases better than drugs. With cases, he doesn’t need to shut off his head, which is, according to him, why he took them in the first place. Anyway. I’m the only one who can give him the cases, and I can just as easily withdraw that. So, if I get any hint that’s he’s been on them, it’s no more cases.”

“Ever?” Mycroft asked carefully, turning his gaze away from the tip of his umbrella to Greg with alarming fixation.

“Depends on the dosage. He’s in rehab at the moment, should be out by the end of the month, and then we’re getting him sorted.” Greg said, feeling quite smug himself. He leant back in his chair.

“Well, you’ve…handled it rather neatly.” Mycroft said.

“No offense, but when you’re away, there’s only so much you can learn. I made sure I got to know him. Or at least, as well as he’ll let me.” Greg said. Mycroft looked relieved.

“Thank you. I’d better be on my way, sadly. Politicians to deal with.”

“It’s a hard life.” Greg said with a grin. Mycroft acknowledged the joke with a slight nod, then made his way out.

 

When he’d left, Greg turned to look at the picture of him and his sister.

“Thanks, Jay.” He muttered with a wry grin, very aware of how mad he must look, talking to a photograph from long ago. He sighed. Time to go and phone his sister.


End file.
